


Run, hide; stand, fight.

by begformercytwice



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 03:53:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/begformercytwice/pseuds/begformercytwice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Almost three years post-Reichenbach, and someone's gunning for John. Will he accept the help he's offered?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He wasn't that drunk. A few pints, that was all, and home to Mary. That had been the plan, at least. Instead, he had somehow ended up in the back of a car that seemed far too clean to be a taxi.  
"Mycroft still putting on the theatrics, after all this time?" he said to the driver, slumping into the seat. "That is where we're going, isn't it? I haven't answered his phone calls in a while; he must be getting worried. Or does he just enjoy interfering in my life?" No answer. "Where does he find you lot, his lackeys? Did you tell your careers advisor that you wanted to be a messenger boy for a conspiracy theory in a waistcoat?" Silence. "He could at least have sent Anthea."  
*  
Whether Mycroft had somehow had the roads cleared, or John had fallen asleep for part of the journey, he seemed to arrive at his destination in double quick time. To the casual observer, it wouldn't have seemed like any sort of destination at all, but the driver knew exactly which shadowy building to manoeuvre John towards. He thought about trying to run away, just for the sheer hell of it, but the idea of being shot for a second time dampened his spirits a little bit.   
The warehouse was somehow colder than the night air, but the man awaiting him showed no sign of discomfort. Mycroft Holmes was probably born with a condescending half-smile on his face, thought John. Must have upset the midwife.  
"My dear John," he said, his faux-affectionate tone belied by the distance he kept. "How long has it been since last we saw one another?"  
"Well, I haven't seen you for over two years," said John, "but I imagine you can see me any time you feel like it. See me, listen to my phone calls, read my emails-"  
"Yes, indeed," said Mycroft. "You're just the innocent civilian now, aren't you, and I'm the intrusive bureaucrat. How soon we forget who our friends are."  
"You're no friend of mine," John said, suddenly serious. "I thought you'd have got the message by now. You-" He stopped, and composed himself. "You fed your own brother to the wolves. How do you sleep at night? Do you see his face? But no, you didn't have to see it, did you?" His voice was rising now, and echoing off the walls. "You didn't have to see him lying on that pavement! You didn't hear his skull break open!"  
"Did you?"  
"What did you say?"  
"It doesn't matter. I haven't brought you here to dredge up the past. The matter I wish to discuss is of much more immediate concern to you. I have reason to believe your safety is in jeopardy. Yours and Miss Morstan's."  
"Are you threatening her? You think you can get to me through her? If you hurt her, I'll kill you myself, you'd better believe it."   
"Listen to yourself, Doctor Watson," he said. "What reason on Earth would I have to threaten you? You are of no strategic importance to anyone, least of all to me. I am speaking to you as a friend.   
"There is a man by the name of Moran. According to our intelligence, he worked closely with James Moriarty, until the latter's demise, at which point he went to ground. No sign of him for, as you say, over two years, until last week." He held out a file. John made no move to take it. "He resurfaced in Switzerland, trying to access one of Moriarty's bank accounts. He killed two police officers when they tried to detain him, and apparently fled the country."  
"So, what does this have to do with me?" John shifted impatiently. Mary would be getting worried. "I've got nothing to do with any of that any more. He'd have no reason to target me."  
"On the contrary, he has every reason. We fear his relationship with Moriarty was rather more personal than professional, and that his intentions towards those he considers to be even tangentially responsible for his death may be..."  
"A bit on the murder-y side?"  
"A wit to the last, doctor," he said mirthlessly, "although I hope it won't come to that. I wish to offer you and Miss Morstan the opportunity to enter protective custody, until this threat can be contained."  
"And if we refuse?"  
"I don't believe that even you are reckless enough to place your bride-to-be at the mercy of this man. He is a trained killer, one of the most dangerous the world has ever known. I cannot mince words: if you do not accept my offer, you will both be dead within months."  
"I've survived this long," John said. " He can't have just decided to come for me, out of the blue, after all these years. No, we'll take our chances. Maybe you should worry less about my safety, and more about your own. You were the one who had Moriarty tortured, remember? I don't think this Moran will take too kindly to that."  
"You needn't concern yourself with me," said Mycroft. "But if you will insist on being so foolhardy, take my advice: leave her. Tonight. Never contact her again. If you care at all for her, you must make him believe that you do not. Her life depends upon it."  
"Well, I'll bear that in mind," John said. "I'm leaving now. Tell your driver not to shoot me, or this whole thing will have been a complete waste of time."


	2. Chapter 2

"You okay?" murmured Mary, when he finally fell into bed. "I didn't think you'd be this late."  
"I ran into someone, got chatting, that's all," he said. "Go back to sleep."   
"No, it's alright. I'm not that tired anyway. Who'd you run into?"  
"No one, just someone I knew from before." He pulled the duvet over himself, keeping his distance from her. "How was girls' night?"  
"Same as always. Molly had a few too many, so I had to take her home. Poor thing always starts crying when she's drunk. What do you mean, from before?" She moved over and propped herself up on her elbow to look at his face. "From when you worked with Sherlock?"  
"Sort of. Can we talk about it in the morning? I just want to get some sleep."  
"Fine. Shit, I think I left the gas on in the kitchen." She pushed the covers away and sat up.  
"I'll check it, it's alright, you go back to sleep," he said, rising before she could protest. He made his way through the flat, Mycroft's words echoing in his head. He couldn't leave Mary, not after all she'd done for him. He'd always fallen apart without someone alongside him. Whatever, or whoever, was coming, he'd protect her. He wouldn't fail this time.  
The gas wasn't on. It never was, and the door was never unlocked, and the windows were never open. It was just her, and her way of checking everything half a dozen times, just to be sure. It was endearing, but he could only hope it would still be so in thirty years' time. Smiling slightly for the first time in hours, he started to fill the kettle. Under the rushing of the water, the sound of the phone ringing in the living room was almost drowned out.  
"Who's that at this hour?" shouted Mary. "Who even rings the landline?"  
"No one does," John replied. "It's only there for the internet." He put the kettle down and went to answer the phone. "Might be an emergency." He raised the phone to his ear. "Hello?" Silence, apart from a faint crackling. "Who's there? If this is a joke, I don't think it's very funny."  
"This is no joke, Doctor Watson," snarled a rough voice. "Act naturally, keep your mouth shut, and listen to me. You don't want your little girlfriend gettin' all upset, now do ya? How old is she, twenty-four? Twenty-five? You havin' some kinda mid-life crisis? Is that what losing Sherlock Holmes did to ya?"  
"John, who's on the phone?" Mary said, peering round the door. "Put it down and come back to bed. It's freezing in here."  
"It's just my sister, um, she's having a bit of a crisis," he said, ignoring the sinister laughter coming down the line. "I'll be in in a bit, it's fine."  
"Oh, I see," Mary said, backing away again. "Well, give her my love, will you?"  
"Yes, yes," he said, waiting to hear the bedroom door close. "Is this... Moran?"  
"The one and only, at your service," the voice said, dripping with sarcasm and malice. "So Holmes has told ya all about me. Right now I reckon you're thinkin' you shoulda listened to him. Thinkin', has this bloke got my lovely fiancee lined up in his sights right at this very second? Has he got my flat rigged to blow? Is he hidin' somewhere in it, waiting to cut our throats?" He laughed again, the sound like sandpaper. "Well, I'm not. Not gonna kill ya, I mean. Not right this instant, anyway. Not unless you do something stupid, like try to call the law."  
"What do you want?" John said, somehow keeping his voice steady. "We haven't done anything to hurt you. Mary, she's never been near any of this. You've got the wrong people."  
"If I had a pound for every time I've heard that one," said Moran. "No one ever thinks they deserve to die, but they do. They all do. Jim probably more than most, but that's by the by. I have to do this. I owe it to him."  
"Look, I don't know if you're drunk or what, but Jim Moriarty killed himself, and I sure as hell had nothing to do with it. The only person who was on that roof with him is dead."  
"You don't see the long game, doctor," growled Moran. "You've got stupid, but I haven't. I was by his side long enough to learn a thing or two." There was a pause, and more crackling. "You'll be hearing from me. And remember: if you try to get the coppers after me, or you run your mouth off to that stuck-up bastard, it won't just be your guts I string up along Regent Street."   
"Is she okay?" Mary said, as he got back into bed. "She hasn't been evicted again, has she?"  
"What? No, everything's okay," he said, staring up at the ceiling through the darkness. "Everything's just fine."


End file.
